


Maroon Tranquility.

by CancerianWastelandCat



Series: Drabbles [7]
Category: the GazettE
Genre: Ancient Times, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Tranquility, i tried to make it mystical but i think i failed, idk man maybe they're knights or sth, just go read, that kinda ancient if u get me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 07:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14038848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CancerianWastelandCat/pseuds/CancerianWastelandCat
Summary: There's one place on earth where they're all their own.





	Maroon Tranquility.

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise surprise, one of my OT3s makes its first appearance on my account! [> Inspiration. <](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KscmCoQnWCM) It's short but I hope you enjoy :)

There was one place, guarded by thick maroon brocade, a fiber of ancient times, of lithic corridors and fire on walls.

There was one place, hidden behind a three-key-lock, behind sewn mouths and polite smiles.

  
  


“Darling.” 

His voice in the silence sets off a warm trickle in his spine, like the last drops of a nightly summer downpour. It’s only a narrow strip of flickering orange light that his eyes perceive as they open and travel, highlighting a naked shin, a bare torso and a peccant pair of brpwn irises. It’s more than enough. 

It just takes a simple nod to beckon him closer, a single step and the faint rustling of heavy fabric until darkness falls upon them again. His eyes are used to it by now. 

“Ssh, he’s asleep,” he mutters drowsily himself as he runs his fingers through the dark crop of hair bedded on his chest, silky midnight waves nestling around his knuckles and palm. 

When the mattress dips beneath a knee and their lips meet, there is nothing but the sound of a hum and their hearts. Beating, stuttering, throbbing, for each other. He doesn’t see him, doesn’t see his face or where his hands support him, doesn’t see his silhouette. It’s his weight that he feels, looming above him like a second layer of protection because the curtains sealing them off aren’t enough, not when it’s so easy to let tongues and noises dance beyond save volume.

And he’s not the only one who feels it. The mop of black strands below them shifts and grumbles softly. 

“You’re late,” he says and they chuckle after pulling apart. 

“Better late than never.”

And soon, gravity veers in a clutter of limbs stretching beneath the duvet, two familiar pair of lips back where they belong, worshipping what is theirs behind closed curtains until he doesn’t know which name to cry and which fist of hair to grip tighter. 

  
  


There was one place. Impenetrable for anyone but them, a shelter for their souls and sins. 


End file.
